Transit

by ~-aa

Transit


He awakens with a jolt. The passenger sitting across the isle stares at him with an air of distain. Yawning, he wonders if the pounding trance wafting through his large headphones has disturbed them enough to examine his dozing body so intently. It certainly couldn’t be any other sane reason. He grimaces, and moves his hand into his bag and turns the volume up, drowning out the drone of the busses’ engine, and the ceaseless rabble of public transport conversations. People asking if Mick knew Sally was going out with Jesse’s ex’s Fiancé, or if the next door neighbour’s dog has won the lottery. Meaninglessness and absurdity at its best, Samuel Beckett would be proud. Avoiding the subtle gaze of the isle-mate, his eyes wander to the traffic as it zips past in the opposite direction. Head leaning against the cold glass of the window, the vibrations move through his body and attempt to lull him into sleep once more.

“You are becoming aware of yourself as a game master”.

The lumbering vehicle slows, the ‘next stop’ sign flashes in time to the deep beats pulsing through his head. Passengers arrive, pay their fare, and work their way through the usual ritual. He’s wearing black, won’t sit with him. She’s wearing purple, won’t sit with him. He’s looking at me, let’s turn away. She’s not paying attention, let’s not sit with her. Each of them has their own personal face-off with the passengers’ on the bus. I wonder what they imagine I’m thinking, he wonders. The same ritual every time, for every person. Get on. Pay ticket. Look. Sit. He starts to stare back, hoping one of them will keep staring, keep his gaze, want him to look at them.
They all turn away first.
They always turn away first.

“You won’t see me cry”

Creeping past a bar, the customers making merry in the hall of kings (who will soon be making merry in the restrooms of the common man), laugh and joke. Normally he would be jealous. Wishing he was out with his friends, drinking and having a good time. But not tonight, and he wonders why. The lure of sleep crosses over his mind as the trance breaks down to soothing chords and whirling pads. A life ruled by music. A never ending set of break beat, trance, big beat, house, and a dash of classical all rolled into one messed up ball of quasi-insane tunes for the mentally unusual. He thinks back over his day, and what has happened. He thinks back over his life and what has happened. He then decides he is doing too much thinking, and lives in his music once more, the busses’ vibrations working like subsonics through his head and down his back. Massaging him, keeping him awake, and making him wonder if this is all a dream.

The passengers arrive, the bus moves on, and stealthily skulks through the night. The world oblivious to his thoughts, his face blank and undecipherable. His head leans against the window, and he lets sleepless dreams caress his empty shell.